Royally Unexpected: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection

by Lilian Monroe

  “Too many,” I say softly. Jolie keeps staring at me, and a thin thread of hope starts weaving its way through my heart. I clear my throat. “Things changed when Flora was born.”

  Jo turns her body a fraction of an inch toward me, and the thread of hope in my heart gets thicker.

  “I never wanted to be a father. Things between Paulette and I were… explosive, for lack of a better word. We were too similar. We’d fight all the time. She got pregnant, and I thought it would change things, but it just made them worse.”

  I take a deep breath, raking my fingers through my hair. Jolie waits quietly for me to continue.

  So, I do.

  “I broke up with her when she was six months pregnant, which I’m not proud of. She was drinking while pregnant with Flora, and we just—it was messy. Let’s leave it at that. After we broke up, she released that book. Did you hear about the book?”

  “Only recently.”

  “Well, it was packed full of lies. Made me out to be this animal, and made her out to be a saint trapped in a toxic relationship. It was toxic, but it wasn’t all because of me. We were both to blame for that.”

  “And Flora?”

  “Flora has cystic fibrosis. It’s hereditary.” My voice catches. “Paulette left her without anyone looking after her to go promote her book on a breakfast television show. She left a three month old baby home alone.”

  Jolie takes a step toward me, but my mind is elsewhere. The memories of that day start crashing through my mind. The floodgates that I’ve worked so hard to erect have opened, and the pain from those days is tumbling through my body. I slump back down in my chair.

  “I’m not proud of what I did. I should have just taken Flora and done things legally. Gained custody, had my lawyers deal with Paulette—that kind of thing.”

  “It would be hard to think clearly in that situation.” Jolie walks back to her seat and sits down, but her eyes are full of pity and I can’t bear to look at them.

  “I was thinking more clearly than I’ve ever thought before,” I answer flatly, staring at my half-eaten plate. “I wanted to kill her. I’ve never been that mad. Flora is my world, and my ex didn’t give a damn about her. I went to the set where Paulette was filming, and I snapped. I started yelling. She had a knife.”

  I gesture to my face, where my scar feels like it’s hot to the touch. Jolie reaches toward me tentatively, running her fingers along my jaw. I close my eyes and let her feel the evidence of my greatest shame.

  I used to think that I wasn’t myself in those days. I was so out of control, so out of my mind. But the worst part is—I was still me. I know that part of my soul still exists inside me. The black part. The beastly part. The angry part.

  Jolie lets out a sigh. She chews her lip and grabs her fork, pushing the food around her plate. I watch her for a few moments.

  “So, what do you think?” I ask.

  “About what?”

  “About me. You think I’m a monster?”

  Jolie takes a deep breath. She lets it out slowly, moving her head from side to side. “I don’t think you’re a monster...”

  “…but?”

  “But I think you need therapy.” She doesn’t say it in a derisive way. Jolie says it matter-of-factly, as if it’s the same thing as saying I need to buy some milk because I’ve run out.

  “You think that would do anything to help?” I shake my head. “I’m beyond therapy.”

  “That’s probably the perfect indication that you could benefit from it,” Jolie grins. She shrugs. “It’s hard to ask for help, though.”

  “Have you ever been to a therapist?”

  Jolie shakes her head. “I should have, but I didn’t. I struggled in college. Couldn’t keep up with my classes. I had this horrible relationship, I was drinking a lot, my father was diagnosed with cancer for the first time. I was a mess—depression, suicidal thoughts. The works.”

  “But you worked it out on your own?”

  “I dropped out and moved to New York. Pretended like I was this free spirit, but I was just scared. I used up all my money and spent the next six years struggling to survive, telling myself that it’s what real writers did. Therapy probably would have been a better option.”

  I stare at Jolie’s delicate features, seeing the pain flash across them. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and for the first time in a long time, I feel close to another human. I feel like we share a piece of the same pain—like she’s built of the same material that made me.

  “Can I show you what I do to deal with it?” My heartbeat starts to speed up. I can’t believe I just said that, but Jolie makes me feel comfortable. She makes me want to open up to her, makes me want to tell her exactly what’s on my mind.

  Jo chews her lip. “As long as it doesn’t involve anything violent or dangerous, then yeah, sure.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “I promise it’s safe… mostly.”

  Standing up, I hold out my hand. When Jolie slips her palm into mine, it feels like something clicks into place in my chest. Her eyes shine as she smiles at me, and I lead her out of the dining room and up toward the East Wing.

  19

  Jo

  My heart thumps when the Prince fits the key into the lock. It slides noiselessly, and Prince Gabriel pushes the door open. He glances at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. He’s brought me up to the East Wing, to a door at the far end of the corridor from Flora’s room. This door has been closed every time I’ve been up here. I’ve heard of this room—Sam told me it’s the off-limits room in the off-limits East Wing. I’ve heard whispers that the Prince does all kinds of things in here. He locks himself in here for days at a time, and emerges looking like a shell of a human.

  I don’t know what I expect. Something sinister, maybe? A depraved torture chamber? A weird fetish room?

  Instead, what greets me is a mostly bare space. It’s stark white, with a long couch along one wall, and a desk and chair at the far end. An easel sits in a corner, with a fresh page pinned to it. Opposite the couch, a fireplace is recessed into the wall.

  It’s not what I would expect from an artist’s studio—it’s clean and clinical. It looks like an art studio before an artist touches it. It doesn’t have the energy, and chaos, and color of art. It’s cold. White. Orderly. Bare.

  Nothing like the Prince.

  Prince Gabriel closes the door behind me, and I hear the lock click. I glance back at him, frowning.

  “Habit.” He nods to the lock. “I never want to be disturbed when I’m in here.”

  I take a tentative step forward, feeling the Prince’s eyes following every movement. I stare at the few pieces of furniture and then back at him.

  “Is this it? This is the room that everyone is afraid of? This is what’s off-limits?”

  Instead of answering, the Prince walks to the easel and places it in the center of the room, facing the couch.

  “Sit,” he commands.

  I hate that I want to obey. I hate that my feet carry me to the sofa, and that I sit without even uttering a word. I lift my eyes to the Prince, and the air between us crackles.

  He watches me, tilting his head slightly. Then, he moves to the desk and pulls open a drawer. He takes out a single piece of charcoal and walks back to the easel. Every movement is purposeful. He doesn’t waste a twitch, or a glance, or a breath on anything except doing exactly what needs to be done.

  Leaning over to lie down on the sofa, I turn my head to look at the Prince.

  He inclines his head. “Don’t move.”

  I watch him, mesmerized. His hand moves with assurance, slicing the page with strokes of charcoal. When I see him smudge the page and then smooth his fingers through his hair, leaving a small dot of black on his forehead, a smile stretches across my lips.

  Prince Gabriel’s eyebrows draw together, and a slight crease appears in his forehead. His eyes move from me to the page, and my body burns. Wherever he looks, liquid, hot honey flows inside my veins. My hear
t thuds against my ribcage, like a giant’s fist pounding against a door. My whole body thrums with every beat.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again, Prince Gabriel is staring at my face. His eyes meet mine, and lava pours into my belly, teasing between my thighs and making me forget that I ever hated him.

  His gaze is indifferent, and it flicks back to the page. With a few quick strokes of the charcoal, he finishes the drawing. Stepping back, Prince Gabriel looks over his work.

  I expect him to turn the easel, or invite me to come look. I expect him to show me what he’s done.

  Instead, he turns to the fireplace and presses a small button on the wall. I hear the hiss of gas and the click of an ignitor, and a fire roars to life. The Prince takes the sheet of paper on the easel, and drops it straight into the fire.

  “Wait!” I say, jumping up. I rush to the fireplace in time to see the edges of the paper curling, and my likeness dissolving into ash.

  The Prince drops the charcoal back into the drawer, wipes his hand on a rag, and places the easel back in the corner. I watch him, nailed to the same spot on the ground. Outrage flames to life inside me.

  “Why did you burn it?”

  “Because I like to ruin beautiful things,” he answers darkly, stalking toward me. His arm slips around my back and he pulls me close, searing his lips to mine.

  I don’t understand him. The Prince’s beautiful, tortured soul is knocking against mine, and I want to let him in—but he terrifies me.

  What is fear in the face of desire, though?

  The Prince slips his hand beneath my dress, feeling the heat of my sex. He drags his fingers along the outside of my panties as molten desire surges through my center. My knees knock together as he pins me against him with the arm around my back, his lips devouring mine.

  We don’t make it to the sofa. The floor will do. I collapse at his feet and he follows me down, running his hands under my dress to rip my underwear down my legs. He slides his fingers inside me then and my back arches in response. A gasp catches in my throat as the Prince’s fingers fuck me once again.

  When his mouth covers my clit, warm wetness gushes out of me. His tongue dances over me and I claw at his hair, grinding against him until I come. Prince Gabriel laps up my orgasm with a groan, and then lifts his eyes to mine.

  “You’re beautiful, Jolie,” he growls as his eyes burn through me. Reaching up to my chest, he slips my dress down to expose my breast, and brushes his wet fingers over my puckered nipple.

  “Do you want to ruin me, too?”

  The Prince’s lips curl into a black smile and he crawls over me. His tongue traces a line up my neck that sends shivers tickling down my spine. His hot breath melts into me, and he drops his lips to my ear.

  “I already have.”

  I don’t even know when the Prince unbuckled his pants and kicked them off. I don’t realize he’s hard and waiting at my entrance—but when he speaks the words, the Prince spears me with his length. He splits me in half, drawing a cry from me as his cock fills me up.

  It’s not painful. Never painful.

  It’s perfect.

  Dragging himself out of me, Prince Gabriel leans his forearms on either side of my head. His eyes stare into mine—inky, and dangerous, and alive.

  “I want to see your face when you come all over my cock,” he growls, his lips brushing mine. He thrusts inside me again, and a whimper escapes my lips.

  I don’t want to be like this—weak and broken as he fucks me on the floor. Mustering all my strength, I flip us over. Either I catch him by surprise, or he lets me, because I land with my legs straddling him and my hands braced against his chest.

  I’ll come on his cock if he wants me to—but I’m doing it my way. A growl rumbles from his chest to mine, and I roll my hips against his. His lips part, and the darkness in his eyes drops for an instant. My fingers curl around the collar of his shirt as he gathers my dress up above my waist and pulls it off over my head.

  The Prince’s fingers sink into my ass as he guides me with his hands, thrusting into me as I grind against him. He spreads my ass wide and white heat flashes through my body.

  My breasts bounce. The Prince reaches up to tug at my nipple, sending heat crashing from my chest down to my groin. Sensing the tension inside me, Prince Gabriel pinches harder, and his other hand comes down on my ass with a loud crack.

  I’ve never been into rough sex before—not like this, anyway. Not in a way where anger, and lust, and hatred collide. Not where the blackness of a man’s heart pours into mine, and I drink it up with gluttony.

  I tear his shirt open and leave red scratch marks on his chest. His handprints mark my body, and his eyes scream mine, mine, mine.

  “Come on my cock,” the Prince growls.

  “I don’t come on command,” I spit back.

  “You do with me.”

  The Prince grabs my hips and plunges himself inside me. He reaches down between us and slips his thumb over my clit, and I come—just like he told me to. Molten heat spills through my stomach and splashes through my veins. My head falls back as a scream slips through my lips.

  I give myself over to the pleasure—to him. I let myself fall into my orgasm head-first, not caring what the Prince thinks of me, or why he can do this to me. I’m done resisting. I’m done hating.

  I just come.

  When the Prince feels my walls contract around him, he lets out a low grunt as his cock grows even harder. I feel it pump hot seed into me, and another wave of pleasure washes over me.

  In the deep recesses of my mind—the ones that haven’t been clouded by my orgasm—I register that we haven’t used protection this time, either. But the thought flits away, and I give myself over to the pleasure of his touch.

  Falling onto his chest, my body twitches and trembles as he wraps his arms around me. A soft whimper escapes me, and the Prince lets out a growl in return.

  We have no words. They’ve been stolen from our lips by the heat of the moment. All we have are soft noises, gentle touches, and subtle movements.

  Prince Gabriel’s fingers trail up my spine and I melt into his chest. I listen to his heartbeat with my eyes closed as he softens inside me.

  The Prince is wrong. He hasn’t ruined me. Something has shifted inside me, but it’s not for the worse. I’m open… and I’m happy.

  20

  Gabriel

  The tile floor is cold and hard underneath me, but I don’t want to move. Jo’s skin is too warm and silky to want it anywhere except pressed against mine. We lay there, unmoving, until my phone goes off.

  I stiffen. I know that alarm.

  Jo senses the shift and crawls off me. I get up, swearing under my breath, and grab my phone.

  “What is it?” She asks, reaching for her dress.

  “Flora.”

  I don’t have time to explain. I just throw my clothes on as a lump forms in my throat. Flora has a distress button near her bed, and if she’s pressed it, it means something is seriously wrong. Her lungs are infection-prone, and any sort of bacteria can leave her bedridden for weeks.

  I’ve gotten sloppy. I used to be so careful with Flora, and she hasn’t had an infection in almost eighteen months. Now, I’m fucking my gardener and not taking care of my daughter. What kind of monster am I? I knew I was bad, but really?

  This is a new low.

  I can’t bring myself to look at Jo. The second my pants are fastened, I rip the studio door open. My shirt is still open, my tie lost somewhere on the floor. It doesn’t matter. I sprint down the hall toward Flora’s room.

  Vaguely, I hear footsteps behind me, but my mind is spinning so fast I don’t have time to think about it. Blood rushes in my ears as I make it to Flora’s door.

  I strain my ears for the coughing that I know I’m going to hear. Sometimes, she coughs non-stop for hours and hours. Seeing your baby girl cough up blood is one of the most harrowing things a father can go
through.

  But I can’t hear anything. My own heartbeat is too loud. I fall through the door as my stomach churns. The room spins…

  …and Flora sleeps peacefully in her bed. I rush to her side, double- and triple-checking that she’s still breathing. My hand goes to my head and I let out a heavy sigh. On the edge of my daughter’s bed, a book rests on top of the distress button. I move it out of the way, glancing at the title—Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

  I frown, putting the book down on the floor next to Flora’s bed. I stroke her cheek—just to make sure she’s okay.

  A noise at the door makes me turn my head, and I see Jolie standing there.

  “Is she okay?” She whispers.

  “She’s fine,” I nod. For a second, I want to tell her to leave—to get out, and never come back. What right does my gardener have to be in my daughter’s bedroom?

  I don’t say anything, though, and Jolie takes a step toward the bed. In a way, it feels good to have her here. Flora stirs, blinking her eyes open and making a soft noise.

  “Daddy? Jo?”

  “Go back to sleep, kiddo,” I say, stroking her forehead. “Sorry to wake you.”

  My daughter frowns sleepily, rubbing her eyes. She looks over at Jo, and the creases in her forehead disappear. She smiles.

  “I’m almost done with the book,” she says, reaching up to the top of her bed. When she doesn’t find her novel, she lifts herself up. I pick it up off the floor where I left it, and Flora smiles wider.

  She glances at Jo. “I really like it.”

  “It was one of my favorites,” Jolie responds softly. “I can’t believe you’ve read it so quickly!”

  Flora shrugs. “I have a lot of time to read.”

  My heart squeezes. Is my daughter starved for human contact? Is that why she’s befriended Jolie? Have I been wrong to isolate her like this?

  “You’re lucky,” Jo winks. She steps closer to the bed and strokes Flora’s legs through the blankets. “Now you should get to sleep. Didn’t you tell me your governess is giving you an exam tomorrow?”